


Tokyo '91

by orphan_account



Series: slaughterhouse [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Politics, Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Corruption, Dirty Talk, Journalism, M/M, Minor Injuries, Recreational Drug Use, Rough Sex, Smoking, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-06-05 10:40:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6701563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“When you’re fresh meat, kill, and throw them something fresher.” </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Tooru is a young and dangerous foreign minister who knows the difference between money and power.</p><p>Hajime is his knight in shining armour; an almost-there political journalist with loose morals who's willing to publish anything Tooru tells him to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tokyo '91

**Author's Note:**

> so
> 
> here it is. 
> 
> the house of cards inspired fic literally no one asked for.
> 
> lots of dialogue, lots of sex & lots of characterisation.
> 
> enjoy!!
> 
>  
> 
> u can see more notes, headcanons, etc. on my tumblr <3

It started like this; Hajime’s boss had scraped his story in favour of Tetsuro’s— he was the senior political correspondent at the paper, back then— once more.

“I’m sorry, Hajime,” Daichi— the editor in chief— had told him, “It’s just— that whole deal with the hedge funds that you dug up... Finance isn’t interesting anyone at the moment. Why don’t you write some nice piece about the parks and recreation bill? The one with the dog parks? They say it’ll pass—”

“Sir,” he interrupted, “I’m sorry, it’s just— you know you hired me because I’m a critical political journalist, and not some fucking—”

“I _know_ you’re a critical journalist,” he said, frowning, tapping his pen rhythmically on his dark wooden desk, “I know that, but you have to write something that people want to read. It’s as simple as that. People love scandal and positive news. If you don’t bring me scandal, I expect positive news stories. You’re not bringing me scandal, so go write me 500 words on that parks and recreation bill. I’ll put you on page five,” he finished, turning his gaze back to the papers he’d been correcting. Outside, a phone rang in the office.

Hajime turned on his heel and marched towards the door, his shoulders hunched.

“And get some cute photographs of kids and dogs while you’re there!” Daichi shouted behind him.

Hajime slammed the door.

 

That was all it took for Hajime to end up knocking at one Oikawa Tooru’s front door. He’d done his research. Tooru’s personal history alone was enough for Hajime’s interest to spark. Daichi had wanted scandal, and Tooru seemed like he was positively boiling over in intrigue.

A quick read of Tetsuro’s latest article about him— that man was a good writer, despite it all— and one Wikipedia article later, Hajime found himself scrolling down Google images, staring at endless photographs of Tooru; Oikawa Tooru, the infamous and youngest foreign minister in the history of government, the one who graduated high school at 16 and left Oxford— _Oxford_ — with a law degree at 19. He was immediately drafted to the foreign ministry after that, and found himself a cabinet minister at 26. Hajime was 26, too, and, as he sat hunched over his old laptop, a memorabilia from his college days, he thought that he had not nearly seen as much of the world as Tooru did, and it seemed to Hajime that Tooru hadn’t only been out there in the wide world, it sounded like he owned it, kept it in the palm of his hands. 

The first thing he noticed about him was that he had this smile, this perfect, symmetrical smile with bright, white teeth, the kind that made you think he knew everything about you, and it made him seem as though he believed in you as much as you wanted to believe in yourself. It made him appear as though he were irresistibly prejudiced in your favour. It was pure magnetism, and Hajime was sure than whenever Tooru grinned like that in a room full of ministers and secretaries and diplomats, everyone either wanted to be him, kill him, or fuck him.

Hajime was torn between the last two options.

 

He took the bus and metro to Tooru’s apartment that night. It wasn’t hard to figure out the address, all he had to do was call in a favour from Tetsuro and get him to ask a friend of a friend— Tooru’s permanent secretary, Akaashi, who was almost-but-not-quite-dating one of Tetsuro’s friends— for the street and house number. It was in the centre of town, which was sort of unusual, seeing as, in Hajime’s mind, most ministers lived in large estates outside of Tokyo— the kind with large iron gates and green lawns and butlers and maids— and not in some brick house inched closely to its neighbours.

Hajime rang the doorbell and knocked three times; it was late, but Tooru should be awake. Hajime knew his working habits from Tetsuro’s work, and Tooru was prone to, apparently, staying up late finishing and going over everything he’d done that day, paperwork and phone calls and transcripts and so forth. If he was telling the truth, he should have been awake now, it was only one in the morning, and it he was lying, Hajime would have no qualms about waking up some high ranking member of government who had openly lied to the press and ergo the general public.

Hajime rang once more. He heard a distant “I’ll get it, Aone; go back to bed,” and then the door swung open.

It was Tooru. He had glasses on and a white pressed shirt, tucked messily out of his black slacks. He was wearing socks, too, and he leaned against the doorframe, resting his head against the dark wood and staring Hajime up and down.

“Hello,” Tooru had told him in a low voice, the kind that had the power to terrify you, to scare you completely, or to simply turn you on, make your whole body grow hot and electric.

“Are you a fan, or are you here to kill me?” Tooru asked, grinning at him.

A car alarm went off in the distance.

“Neither,” Hajime replied, “My name is Iwaizumi Hajime, and I’m a reporter at _The Daily Correspondent._ I’m here to talk to you.”

Tooru laughed softly.

“We’re talking,” Tooru said, “Tell me what we’re talking about.”

“You,” he replied in a heartbeat.

Tooru laughed lowly and folded his arms across his chest.

“Crazy,” he said, “That’s my favourite topic to talk about.  What about me?”

Hajime inhaled a shaky breath.

“I protect your identity, I print everything you say, and I don’t ask questions,” he spoke.

Tooru nodded slowly.

“What makes you think I don’t already have such arrangement with one of your colleagues?” he murmured.

“If you did you wouldn’t have opened the door,” replied Hajime, “You wouldn’t still be talking to me.”

Tooru was silent, then, and raised his chin a little, as though he were balancing an intricate, fragile ball on the top of his head.

“You can trust me,” Hajime said.

“I don’t trust anyone,”

“Well, I don’t care about anyone,” he said, “I didn’t say that. I said that you can trust _me_.”

“Can I?” Tooru laughed, “Which Iwaizumi Hajime should I trust? The one that wrote that very fine article about the new jogging path or the one who wrote about the old mayor’s anniversary?”

Hajime swallowed thickly.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Tooru scoffed, “I read everything.”

Hajime ground his teeth.

“I’m better than what they have me doing,” he said, stepping forward towards Tooru, “You know what that feels like.”

Tooru blinked at him.

“You would have made a great deputy prime minister,” Hajime continued in a low voice, and Tooru frowned, eyebrows furrowed, “It’s a shame they didn’t pick you. Who was it instead, again? I can’t seem to remember; must’ve been some Mr. Nobody from Nowhere.”

It was silent. Tooru smiled, then, slowly, and then all at once, a little lopsidedly, tilting his head one way.

“Why don’t you step inside?”

 

“I’ve done my research about you,” Hajime spoke as he followed Tooru into his living room, white and spacious and a little too cold, “Foreign minister at 26?” he whistled and rose his eyebrows, “That’s impressive. Tell me; who did you have to fuck to get that high up the ladder that quickly?”

Tooru laughed hollowly.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” he asked.

Hajime grinned at him in that plastic, passive-aggressive manner of his, the kind he wore when Tetsuro complimented him on his latest cover of a charity auction for animal shelters— he always got stuck on animal stories and he allergic to dog hair, _for fucks’ sake_ — and Tooru grinned back at him, titling his head back and widening his eyes in artificial joy. Hajime took a seat on Tooru’s cream sofa, leaning back into the soft fabric. Tooru watched him silently.

“Sorry,” Tooru stammered, waving a hand in front of himself, “What did you say your name was again?”

Hajime bit the inside of his mouth in annoyance. Tooru was good at this, far too good.

“Hajime,” he spat, “Iwaizumi Hajime.”

“Great,” replied Tooru, “Hajime— _can I call you Hajime?_ — why don’t you tell me a little bit more about why you’re here?” he asked quickly.

“You’re young,” replied Hajime, “You’re young and ambitious, and you know the difference between money and power.”

“Do I?”

“Clearly,” scoffed Hajime, “You wouldn’t be working for the government if you didn’t. A first in law from Oxford? I bet you got scouted for thousands of law firms as soon as you set foot in any lecture hall.”

Tooru laughed quietly.

“Perhaps,” he hummed, “Why don’t I make you an offer, too; drink?” he asked.

“Sure,” replied Hajime, “Whiskey, if you’ve got some.”

“Of course I do,” said Tooru. He turned around to grab two glasses and a bottle from a mahogany cupboard— it likely cost more than Hajime’s monthly rent— pressed against the wall.

“Do you want ice?” asked Tooru, kneeling down in front of the cabinet. Hajime licked his lips.

“I’m fine,” he said, clearing his throat. It had dried up far too quickly.

“Good,” Tooru replied, and “I’m glad. I can only be friends with people who take their drinks the same way I do.” he laughed.

“Friends?” asked Hajime as Tooru poured golden liquid into the crystal glasses with effortless grace, as though he’d done it a thousand times. He probably had.

“Oh, yes,” murmured Tooru, “We’re friends, Hajime, and we’re going to become a whole lot more than just friends.”

Tooru took his glass and raised it to his mouth, though not before lifting it in a silent salute to Hajime. Hajime mirrored the action and let the liquid slide down his throat; it was expensive, and unquestionably, sinfully good.

“How so?” asked Hajime.

“Like I said,” replied Tooru, “I’ve got an offer to make, too; a proposition, so to speak.”

“I’m listening,” mumbled Hajime. He took another sip of his drink.

“I think that this could be very beneficial to the both of us, Hajime, if we play our cards right,” cooed Tooru, “Don’t you think so?”

“What?”

“See,” Tooru continued, “Centuries from now, when people watch footage of me on broken televisions, who will they see smiling on the edge of the screen, and in the background of old faded photographs? It’ll be me. It has to be me. I want you to make sure that it will be me, and only ever be me. You got that?”

Hajime grinned at him sharply.

“I feel like I’ve met the real you just now.” he said.

Tooru raised his glass at him. He drowned it in one go.

 

Hajime came home late, that night— or early, really, at 5:47 a.m. — and with this strange aching feeling deep inside of him, rattling his bones. He flopped down onto his background, and listened to the sound of his neighbours argue as the events which had unfolded before him earlier replayed in his mind.

“Here,” Tooru had mumbled into his ear, “This is my private number. You should call me some time,” he murmured, trailing a hand along Hajime’s flushed neck. Tooru’s murmur was carefully crafted to make people lean towards him; an irrelevant piece of the puzzle that was Oikawa Tooru that made him no less charming.

Tooru’s voice was so full of money, Hajime thought, it was smooth, yet strong, sort of like that whiskey he’d drunken at Tooru’s.  It seemed like some carefully crafted mechanism, and it was frightfully addicting.

 

Hajime didn’t sleep well that night.

Tooru’s words rang in his head, over and over, until—

**we’re friends, Hajime, and we’re going to become a whole lot more than just friends.**

 

Hajime had sent him a text message that next morning, at the office, while drinking his third cup of straight black coffee.

     **To: Oikawa Tooru**

 ** _Hey. Are you free today?_**  

Hajime stared at the screen; he hadn’t expected Tooru to reply, after all, he should have been working— both of them should have been working, truthfully— and yet, Tooru was typing. He wondered why he had told him _hey_ ; it made him sound juvenile, as though Tooru were some friend some high school, and just some ordinary guy.

**From: Oikawa Tooru**

**_Today, or tonight?_ **

Hajime blinked, once or twice. It felt unreal.

**To: Oikawa Tooru**

**_Depends. When are you free?_ **

Hajime bit his lip. Within mere seconds, his phone vibrated once more.

**From: Oikawa Tooru**

**_Dinner with the PM @ 2100— I’ll come over to yours after. No security & no disturbances.  Send me your address._ **

Truthfully, Hajime felt a little annoyed at Tooru’s incessant tone, the way commanding aura of his reaching him even through text.

It didn’t stop him from typing out his address, then:

**To: Oikawa Tooru**

**_Do you have something for me?_ **

He raised his coffee to his lips, taking a large gulp.

**From: Oikawa Tooru**

**_I wouldn’t have asked to meet you otherwise, would I?_ **

He was right, of course he was, and Hajime felt embarrassment rise from deep inside of him.

**From: Oikawa Tooru**

**_Unless you want to see me for other reasons, Hajime— I’m good at mixing business and pleasure._ **

Hajime locked his phone and turned it face down onto his desk.

It was too much this early in the morning.

 

“Jesus,” Tooru swore as he stepped over the threshold that evening, eying Hajime’s flat— it was still messy, even though he cleaned it, and it still had this pungent, stale smell of fast-food and cigarette smoke— critically, “Do you really live in this shithole?”

Hajime tripped over a stray, lone worn gym shoe. He tossed it into a corner.

“Yeah,” he replied, “Not all of us are ministers. Sit wherever,” he gestured to his sofa, more foam than fabric. Tooru laughed a little, though he took a seat regardless, propping his elbow on the backseat of the sofa and resting his knuckles against the side of his head.

“Do you want a beer, or something?” Hajime asked, tip-toeing socked feet into his small kitchen to grab himself one.

“Sure,” Tooru shouted, and Hajime nodded solemnly.

“It’s distracting,” murmured Tooru around his bottle once Hajime had taken a seat beside him, “The mess, I mean.”

“Shut up, and get to the point,” Hajime mumbled.

Tooru raised an eyebrow.

“Is foreplay over?” he asked amusedly.

Hajime snorted.

“Time is precious. Powerful people don’t have the luxury of foreplay.” he said.

Tooru laughed lowly.

“That is _not_ true—” he replied.

“You know, I read somewhere that JFK never lasted more than three minutes,” he said.

“Well,” Tooru sniffed indigently, “I’m not JFK—”

“Tooru—” he sighed exasperatedly, “Just— tell me who I should— _God_ , I don’t know how to phrase this—”

“You will make the minister of defence resign.”

It was that simple, really.

“What?” Hajime hissed, “You’re crazy, I—”

“Either you’re with me, or you’re against me,” Tooru said calmly, “It’s that simple.”

Hajime sighed.

“Tell me what I should print.”

 

He saw him two days later, at an art museum, far too early in the morning; seven a.m. Tooru wore contacts, his hair was slicked back, and Hajime wondered how many ministers and diplomats he was going to see that day, and whether his cheap tricks— his smiles, his laughs— worked on them.

They sat flush next to one another— shoulders touching— and Hajime dug his hands into the pockets of his sweatshirts. He stared up at the painting in front of him; oil on canvas, J.M.W. Turner, _The Shipwreck_.

“Israel and Palestine?” he asked Tooru, “ _That’s_ his first line of business? Why would Wakatoshi— he’s not in the foreign ministry, he’s minister of defence; a military man. Why would he—”

“It’s risky,” Tooru hushed.

“Exactly,” scoffed Hajime, “He’s not like that, why would he—”

“It’s risky, and he thinks he can handle it.”

“Can he?”

Tooru smiled slyly at him. Hajime could feel his skin crawl under the intensity of his gaze.

“I couldn’t say, Hajime,” he murmured, “Don’t you think it’s interesting that he’d start with a foreign issue in his first week in office?”

“It’s peculiar,” stated Hajime, “I wouldn’t know why he would— I mean, unless—”

He halted.

“He’s going up against you,” Hajime breathed, “It’s a fucking— that’s a dirty move.”

“I’ve seen dirtier,” hummed Tooru.

Hajime laughed lowly.

“I’m sure you have.”

 

Hajime’s phone screen lit up.

**From: Oikawa Tooru**

**_2003 opinion column of The Tokyo Herald._ **

“Who’s that?” Tetsuro nudged him, nursing his cup of coffee and balancing against his desk with his hips.

“No one,” Hajime replied, turning over his phone.

“You’re lying,” Tetsuro grinned, “Is it your girlfriend?”

“No,” said Hajime.

“Boyfriend?”

“Wh— _no_ ,” he stammered, and Tetsuro shrugged. Hajime watched at him for a long while, cautiously, as Tetsuro slurped his coffee loudly.

A moment later, Hajime’s phone buzzed once more. Tetsuro popped his lips. Hajime frowned.

His leg bounced up and down, and then, in a quick split motion, he reached for it, just as Tetsuro scooped it up himself

**From: Oikawa Tooru**

**_Wakatoshi was editor in chief._ **

“You’re kidding, right?” Tetsuro scoffed.

Hajime grabbed his phone from it from him with minimal resistance.

“You’re not—” he told Hajime, “You’re serious. _God_ ,” he sighed, “This town is _way_ too incestuous.”

“What?” Hajime asked, stumbling over his own words.

“Out of all the possible lovers and boyfriends you could have you just _had_ to bag Oikawa,” Tetsuro said, “What, are you two high school sweethearts, or something? Childhood friends?” he grumbled around his mug.

“Yeah, something like that,” Hajime lied, “If you tell anyone, I’ll kill you.”

Tetsuro laughed.

“Fuck, no,” he said, “I don’t want you to deal with the press; _oh_ , the scandal. Japan’s golden-boy minister is queer... imagine that.” he trailed off.

Hajime shrugged.

“Be careful out there,” Tetsuro told him, “If you need anything, you know where to find me.”

Hajime nodded, eyes fixated on a point somewhere left of his foot. He toyed his phone, spinning it around in his fingers; **_Wakatoshi_** —

“Actually,” Hajime shouted, “Are you free now?”

Tetsuro cackled.

“Depends,” he said.

“You’ll like this,” Hajime told him.

Tetsuro sighed.

“What are we talkin’ about; off the record or on the record?” he replied.

Hajime shrugged.

“Borderline illegal,” he said.

Tetsuro grinned.

“Dope,” he hushed, “Who are we trashin’?”

 

“What do you know about me, really?” Tooru had asked him, once, in the depth of the night.

Hajime swallowed thickly.

“I know that you are extremely good at whatever you put your mind to,” he had replied.

 

 

Wakatoshi held a press conference the next morning.

“The conflict in the middle east is one of the most challenging issues we face today,” he’d told them, voice mechanic, “I will personally meet with the leaders of both nations— and I say both nations, as Palestine must be recognised as such— in order to find a quick and swift solution; a two-state solution is the only solution. I have said so since the day I gained your trust as a politician, as a commander, even as a young cadet. It is what I believe in, and only ever believed in. We must—”

Hajime switched off the T.V.

 

 

“What am I looking at?” Daichi asked, lifting the printed pages which lay on his desk with innate suspicion.

“ _The_ _Tokyo Herald_ , 2003,” Hajime told him, “Wakatoshi was editor in chief.”

Daichi’s eyes scanned the pages.

“It’s thin,” he sighed, “I mean, how can you be—”

“He wrote it,” Tetsuro spoke from the door, “I asked one of his writers at the time. The guy’s a nutcase, now, he lives in a trailer in Sendai, but he’s sure of it; Wakatoshi wrote it.”

“Does Wakatoshi deny involvement?” Daichi asked.

“Yes, sir,” Tetsuro replied.

Daichi sighed.

“People change their opinions, you know,” he said, “I mean, this is— what, ten years old?”

“He’s pretty vocal about his opinion, sir,” Tetsuro said, scratching at his cheek, “ _Palestine is illegal_ ,” he read, “ _A one-state solution is the only solution._ That’s pretty radical for a minister whose administration calls for peace and security in the Middle East with a two-state solution.”

“Private people change their minds—”

“He’s the minister of defence—” Hajime interrupted, “He’s calling for the destruction of—”

“Did he give a statement?” Daichi asked Tetsuro.

Tetsuro lifted his notepad.

“ _Let me— let me, one and for all, say this definitively: I did not author that editorial,_ ” he read.

He paused.

“I hadn’t told him it was an editorial.” he spoke.

Daichi looked up at him, and then at Hajime.

“Shit,” he said weakly, and Hajime could not help but agree.

 

“It’ll print tomorrow,” Hajime had told him, hands dug deep into the pockets of his worn slacks. They were standing in a back staircase of the foreign ministry, white paint chipping off of the brick walls. A light flickered above them.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” said Hajime, frowning. Tooru ran a hand through his mussed up hair; he seemed nervous, unsteady. Hajime wondered how many times he had repeated the motion already.

“I do,” he replied, “It’s just politics.”

It felt a whole lot more than that, Hajime thought, though he remained silent, and watched Tooru sigh and type away on his BlackBerry.

 

The next time he heard his voice was when Tooru called him, in the middle of the night; 3:21 a.m..

Hajime was at home. Tooru asked whether he could come over.

“Is there anyone— did anyone see you—” Hajime stammered, leading Tooru inside his apartment, as though he’d done it a thousand times.

“No,” Tooru hummed, shrugging his coat off and loosening his black, slim tie, “I told my driver to go home.”

“Oh,” said Hajime dumbly.

Tooru stepped closer to him, then.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Tooru said, “Are you having second thoughts?”

“No,” he replied quickly, “No— no, I’m not,”

“Good,” murmured Tooru, tilting his head towards him and inching closer, “The only thing I hate more than a liar is a coward.”

“Oh,” Hajime stammered as Tooru trailed his fingers up Hajime’s wrist, eliciting goose bumps.

“That’s why I like you, Hajime,” he told him.

“You should spend the night here,” Hajime said cautiously, his throat closing up.

“It’s late,” Tooru stated.

“Yeah, it is.”

“Early, really,” said Tooru.

They stared at each other for a while. Tooru had this objective beauty about him; his smooth, pale skin and large, deep eyes were undeniably attractive features. In that moment, though, Hajime thought that he was a lot more than that, too. He could see the dark circles underneath Tooru’s eyes— he must have over-worked himself, and for what? For the country; for himself?— the faint scars on his chin from his adolescent acne— he was so young, after all, and Hajime wondered whether he forgot it himself, sometimes, since he always acted so much older than he really was— and the faint indentations of the glasses he wore when he thought no one would see him. He was beautiful in that way, too; down to the bone, inside and out. He wasn’t pure or perfect, or anything like that. He was human, despite it all.

“You should probably kiss me,” Tooru told him.

Hajime froze, and then did exactly that; he grabbed hold of Tooru’s face with both hands, they were cold, though Tooru ignored it in favour of pressing his lips against Hajime’s. They were a lot softer than Hajime had expected, and he could taste some bitter after-taste, though that was all forgotten as Tooru titled his head and opened his mouth and pressing his tongue against Hajime’s, groaning lowly as Hajime pushed towards him, until he was pressed against the wall.

Hajime could feel Tooru’s cock against his own, obviously hard, and it sent little shocks up and down his spine.

“Jesus,” breathed Hajime as they pulled against, “ _Fuck_ — I’ve wanted to do this to you for ages.”

“Yeah?” moaned Tooru as Hajime bit and licked along Tooru’s neck, undoing his tie and throwing it to the floor. Tooru wrapped his legs around Hajime’s waist, pulling him closer and rolling his hips against him. Hajime groaned.

“Yeah,” he said hoarsely, “Probably— probably since I read your Wikipedia article— _ah_ ,” he moaned as Tooru shifted his hips closer, dragging his cock along Hajime’s; they were perfectly aligned. Hajime nipped sharply at Tooru’s ear, and Tooru gasped hoarsely. The back of his head hit the wall, and his chest heaved.

“Fuck me,” breathed Tooru, “C’mon— fuck me— _fuck me_ ,”

“Yeah,” hushed Hajime, “Yeah—okay,”

His hands fumbled to search inside the drawers of the cabinet beside them, and Tooru clawed at his shirt. They pulled away, briefly; Hajime pulled off his shirt and unbuttoned his trousers, pulling his boxers out of the way, and Tooru pulled off his slacks and underwear.

Tooru let his head rest against the wall and eyed Hajime, sizing him up. Hajime frowned at him. He leaned forward, then, kissing Tooru roughly, tongues sliding against each other, teeth clinking. Tooru’s nails dug into the bare skin of Hajime’s shoulders, and Hajime groaned low in his throat. Tooru swallowed the sound and spread his thighs, unhooking one of them to steady himself.

Hajime kissed at his jaw, hastily, biting the soft flesh as he capped the bottle of lube, spreading it over three of his fingers, and dropping it to the floor. Tooru licked his lips in anticipation. He exhaled shakily as he felt Hajime’s palms press against his bare thighs, fingers slipping down to press against his entrance. He rubbed his fingers in slow, easy circles, patient and steady and constant, even though Tooru could feel his erratic breath fan over his neck.

Hajime’s index finger slipped inside, then, and Tooru breathed a hitched moan, leaning his head back; eyes closed, neck bared, mouth wide open. Hajime pressed his finger in to the knuckle, and Tooru rocked onto his hand. Warmth bled through his chest, and he could feel himself lose his composure as he worked a second finger into him. Tooru breathed Hajime’s name over his ear, his nails digging into Hajime’s shoulders and back as Hajime curled his fingers.

Tooru’s body tensed around him, arching towards Hajime, and the sight of Tooru pliant and willing to surrender beneath him was striking, though what truthfully caused Hajime’s throat to dry and skin to tingle all over was the gorgeous sounds erupting from Tooru’s throat, his shivering moans and gasps. It was hitched and raspy, and Tooru’s lips parted around a trembling, insistent moan of Hajime’s name. Groaning lowly, Hajime bit at Tooru’s neck as Tooru rode his fingers, thighs spreading wider and fingers searching over Hajime’s warm skin for some sort of hold.

Hajime flicked his wrist and drove his fingers into him deeply, quicker than before. There was less hesitation, and the brute desire he felt for Tooru increased far more than he felt possible. Tooru’s head threw back into the wall with a choked moan as Hajime spread his fingers, working him open.

“Hajime,” he whined, “C’mon, Hajime— fuck me,” he shook, “Fuck me the way you want to, please—”

His hands clutched desperately at his arm, and he bared his neck further, inviting Hajime to bite and nip at the smooth expanse of his skin, down to his collarbone before nudging a third finger into him. Tooru breathed in sharply, squirming and easing it into him— sucking it into him— and eagerly taking all three. Hajime moaned lowly, biting and licking over Tooru’s jaw, eyes fixated on Tooru’s shifting facial expressions. He was wrecked; eyes glazed, mouth wide open, lips swollen, cheeks flushed, eyebrows furrowed.

Hajime’s patience was running out far quicker than he had anticipated.

“Shit,” he swore softly, “Tooru, I—”

“Fuck me,” Tooru repeated.

He stared directly into Hajime’s, his pupils blown.

“Ruin me,” he commanded in a raspy voice.

Hajime’s mouth went dry.

“How d’you want me?” Tooru slurred, “Do you want to fuck me against the wall, Hajime? You can be rough,” he whispered into his ear, “I don’t mind.”

Hajime inhaled a rattling breath before searching for a condom in the cabinet drawer beside him. He tore open the packet and rolled it onto himself before running his hands up Tooru’s spread thighs. He pressed himself up against him, teasing the head of his cock over Tooru’s entrance as Tooru shivered, curling up towards him.

Hajime rolled his hips upwards and stole his breath away— he never gave it back— and Hajime groaned. Tooru was slick, and tight, and warm, and he moaned Tooru’s name breathlessly into his ear. Tooru’s nails scratched into Hajime’s shoulder, and he hit the back of his head against the wall as Hajime rocked his hips, slowly, before thrusting up harshly into him.

Tooru moaned, loudly, as though he were a porn star, and Hajime briefly thinks of his neighbours. Tooru arched his neck, and Hajime bit along it, leaving dark marks. Tooru panted, and Hajime felt as though his voice alone could have lit a fire in his blood, setting him ablaze.

“Harder,” Tooru breathed, “Fuck me harder, _Hajime_ —”

The ragged pitch of his voice was all it took; Hajime gave a low, rough groan before pulling out farther, sliding in harder, and thrusting forcefully, pressing Tooru up against the wall. He bit hard into Tooru’s shoulder, pinning him against the wall, and Tooru reached up to pull at his hair. Hajime moaned at the sensation.

With a low growl, he pulled out almost entirely, leaving Tooru to whimper at the loss, before rutting his hips back. Tooru moaned, trembling and boneless in Hajime’s arms, and his spine arched off the wall, throwing his head back. His nails clawed sharp, red lines over Hajime’s shoulders, gripping him tight enough to illicit blue and black bruises.  

Tooru’s voice was raspy, and loud, and as he came, he screamed, clinging to Hajime. His muscles tensed— dangerously tight— and his nails scraped over Hajime’s back. Hajime’s endurance was held by a thin string, and as Tooru clamped around him— even tighter— he lost it all, falling after Tooru and crying out  curse words and Tooru’s name as though it was a prayer.

Their panting breaths did not slow for a long while. Hajime’s ears rang, his muscles twitched— uncoiling slowly, now— and he released Tooru from his grip. Tooru stood, leaning against the wall on shaking legs. Hajime stared at him for a long while; at his swelling bites, wet lips, flushed cheeks, and mussed hair.

 “What are you thinking about?” Tooru asked him. His voice was hoarse.

“I think that this is a bad idea,” he replied raggedly.

“I make a living off bad ideas.” Tooru grinned, and Hajime scoffed.

Tooru moved, then, grabbing some tissues from Hajime’s coffee table and wiping himself down. He passed Hajime some, and dressed himself. Hajime mirrored his actions, staring at the dark marks he’d left on Tooru’s pale skin. Even Tooru’s buttoned up dress shirt and tie could not hide them.

“Sorry about the, uh,” he stammered, gesturing at Tooru’s neck.

“It’s fine,” Tooru murmured, “That’s what make-up is for,”

He dug his hands into the pockets of his slim slacks, and his shirt had been rolled up to his elbows, revealing the smooth expanse of the skin of his lower arms. He leaned against the wall.

Hajime bit the inside of his mouth; Tooru seemed so cool. Hajime wondered if he did this a lot.

Tooru’s eyes trailed around the living room they were standing in. It was messy— a empty box of pizza lay on the floor, beside a tube of Vaseline, and there was unwashed laundry everywhere— and suddenly, Hajime felt incredibly embarrassed.

“I’m sorry, it’s a mess, I know—”

“Got any cigarettes?” Tooru interrupted.

“What?”

“Do you have any cigarettes?” he repeated, “I forgot mine.”

Hajime nodded belatedly.

“Yeah,” he replied, “Yeah, I— hang on,” he said, and searched around the room. He found them beside the sofa, on the small stand which held a photograph of him and his college friends at his graduation. He passed the carton to Tooru, and watched him place one between his lips. Hajime lit it for him.

Tooru took a drag, and exhaled the smoke, leaning his head against the wall. He held out his cigarette, offering it to Hajime, and Hajime took it graciously, bringing it up to his lips and inhaling the bitter smoke deeply into his lungs.

He stared at Tooru, for a moment, and hesitated.

“Why do you hate Wakatoshi so much?” Hajime asked him as he passed Tooru the cigarette, “Why do you want him to resign?”

Tooru grinned at him and breathed in slowly.

“Oh, Hajime,” he cooed, smoke coming out of his mouth, “I’m fresh meat in the cabinet.”

“So?”

“When you’re fresh meat, you have to kill, and throw them something fresher.”

 

Tooru was not his— Hajime had understood that very early on in their arrangement— and he wasn’t anyone’s; Tooru was entirely his own. He controlled himself. He was powerful, like that. He was not the highest ranking diplomat in the country, and there were others above him, but he had this innate magnetism that made him seem as though he knew that if he stretched out his arms far enough and ran a little faster, he would be able to seize everything he wanted to. Tooru was a storm; confidence sprawled out of his body, intelligence sizzled in his mind.

He was willing and pliant, able to conform to situations willingly if he saw their benefits, such as now, as he sat on a very uncomfortable chair in the Tokyo Opera despite his vague disinterest in such miniscule affairs, carefully crafted for the media and such. The Italian P.M. had come to visit. He sat two seats down, nodding and tapping his fingers to the music; _Madame Butterfly_ , by Puccini. It had meant to be representative of Japanese-Italian relations, though as Tooru blinked up at the bright lights and staged actors, he wondered whether it had been appropriate for the staff to choose to coax cabinet ministers and ambassadors and the entirety of the Italian delegation to witness the unfolding dramatics between a Japanese geisha and some American lieutenant.

It was a tragedy, truly, but a beautiful one; Tooru inhaled sharply as the second act ended. Loud applause erupted from beside him, though he was temporarily frozen. A hand reached behind him and squeezed his shoulder, tightly. The smooth, expensive fabric of his black suit jacket crinkled beneath his fingers.

“I have to talk to you,” Wakatoshi hissed in his ear, leaning forward and tightening his hold.

Tooru turned his head, and frowned. He swatted the hand away and jostled his shoulder.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” he hushed, clapping his hands together once final time before he stood. He ignored Akaashi’s hectic questions on whether he had spoken to the Italian ambassador’s wife yet— she was an avid fan, evidently, and knew one of Tooru’s old professors at Oxford— and weaselled himself through the anonymous crowd, pushing open doors until he found himself standing opposite Wakatoshi in the dimly lit white-brick corridor, in front of the emergency exit.

“I hope there won’t be an emergency, now,” Tooru laughed coldly, “It’d be _very_ bad for us if the press saw us like this. Backroom deals are _so_ juvenile, don’t you think?”

Wakatoshi frowned at him as Tooru leaned back onto the wall casually, arms crossed.

“This isn’t a backroom deal,” Wakatoshi told him.

“It sure seems like one,” Tooru said, “You must have something _very_ good to offer if you’re too scared to meet on government premises.”

Wakatoshi sighed.

“You’ve gotten colder since you’ve taken over this job,” he said.

“It makes things easier,” Tooru replied in a heart-beat, looking up at the flickering light above them. Wakatoshi hesitated, briefly, biting the inside of his mouth.

“ _The Daily Correspondent_ ,” he stated, and Tooru turned his head to watch him, eyes widened.

“The last time I read the constitution the foreign minister could not associate themselves with the press that closely,” Wakatoshi said.

Tooru’s eyebrow twitched in annoyance.

“I think I’ve proven I’m not your typical foreign minister,” he said, “You’re not a typical minister of defence, either. You’re powerless. You can’t promise better relations between Israel and Palestine.”

“I can,” Wakatoshi said lowly, stepping closer to Tooru and pressing him against the wall, his body creating a dark shadow over Tooru’s own, “I will. Now, let’s work together just like we always intended to do—”

“I can’t do that, Ushijima,” Tooru cooed.

“Tooru,” said Wakatoshi, “We got work so well—”

 “I don’t like liars.”

Wakatoshi sighed angrily.

“I’m not a liar—” he growled, “Don’t you dare say I’m a—”

“You’re a liar,”

“ _I am not a liar!_ ” Wakatoshi shouted, suddenly, voice booming and echoing in the wall. Tooru did not flinch.

“You wrote that article—”

“I did,” Wakatoshi heaved, “That’s— it’s— private individuals change their minds—”

“You lied,” Tooru repeated, “This is a big deal, Ushijima; you’re not a private individual anymore.”

“I did not—”

“ _Shut the fuck up_ ,” Tooru hissed, “I will say this once, so listen closely, you _fucker_ ,” Tooru spat, and in the distance, the music resumed, “Resign. You’ve lost this battle before it’s even begun.”

“I will never—”

Tooru huffed angrily. The music heightened, strings becoming louder until a crescendo was reached. Wakatoshi stared at him. Tooru lifted his chin up.

“Resign,” he commanded.

“Are you— are you threatening me?”

“No,” he replied, “I’m looking out for you.”

They were silent, then.

“I’ve always liked you, Tooru,” said Ushijima after a moment, “You know that. You’re too smart for your own good.”

Tooru frowned. Ushijima leaned towards him, raising his hand to trail his fingers along Tooru’s jaw and neck. Tooru stared up at him. His eyes reflected the light above them.

The music heightened. Tooru snatched Ushijima’s hand, and crushed his fingers between his own; he was close to breaking them. Wakatoshi’s knees buckled, and he winced.

“When they put you in a box barely bigger than a coffin,” Tooru said quietly, slowly, hovering above him as Wakatoshi fell to his knees, “Remember that music. Puccini can be such a downer, but _God_ ; it’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

Wakatoshi nodded frantically. Tooru cracked the bones he held.

“Tooru—” Wakatoshi pleaded.

“He cuts out your heart, and puts it in your fucking hands,” he spat.

The light flickered. He let go, then, and straightened his spine, staring down at Wakatoshi’s quivering form.

“You should put some ice on that,” he told him, back turned and head held high.

Tooru left the door opened as he left; he knew it would annoy Wakatoshi even more that he would have to be the one to walk behind him and close it.

 

 

 

**New Administration Sees Upheaval: Minister of Defence Walks out on Cabinet Meeting**

**Will he resign? Minister of Defence Remains Silent**

**_Tokyo Herald_ ** **Editorial: “I won’t resign” says MoD Wakatoshi**

**Opposition Calls for Resignation: “It’s time for him to face the truth,”**

 

 

 

Hajime read the headlines on his phone.

He grinned, at himself and then at Tooru, who was perched on Hajime’s horrid sofa, typing avidly on the laptop resting on his thighs.

“You look sexy when you’re securing our nation’s foreign policy.” Hajime murmured.

“Is it that, or the sweatpants?” Tooru hummed.

“Move your laptop,”

Tooru shifted, setting it aside. His long, lean legs _were_ covered in sweatpants, and they looked a little thin, light grey, and surely smooth to the touch, Hajime thought.

“It’s definitely your working habits,” he told him, and Tooru scoffed. He arched his back, stretched his arms high above him, and cracked his spine, moaning obscenely as he did so.

“Wakatoshi’s being a pain in the ass,” he groaned, rolling his neck, “Kennedy’s breathing down my neck about it.”

“Kennedy?”

“The US Ambassador,” Tooru recited.

They were silent, then. Hajime stepped closer, sitting opposite Tooru on the sofa.

“It’s Valentine’s day,” he told him.

“Is it?” Tooru asked.

“Yeah, didn’t you know?”

“I’m not that good at romance,” Tooru said, closing his eyes and resting head against the back of the sofa.

“Oh,” Hajime hushed.

Tooru hummed agreeably. He opened his eyes, then, slowly blinking up at Hajime. Hajime swallowed thickly, his throat suddenly became dry, and he reached out to touch Tooru’s wrist. Tooru smiled and crawled his way towards Hajime, sitting in his lap and leaning towards him. His mouth was open, and his hot breath was fanning over Hajime’s jaw and cheeks.

The earlier desire to fuck him into the couch was becoming more and more apparent.

Tooru’s cell phone, innocently sitting on the coffee table, began to ring, then, buzzing against the wood rhythmically. It shifting against the table as it vibrated violently, and Tooru sighed, audibly— Hajime could feel the stark exhale on his skin— and closed his eyes, biting his lips in annoyance. He seemed as though he was torn between ignoring it and answering it, though he decided to pause and shift his face to look at the screen, seeming properly scandalised that it would have the audacity to interrupt him.

Tooru ground his teeth irritably and seized the phone up with one hand, still perched in Hajime’s lap, and stared at the caller I.D. It was Akaashi— Tooru’s infamously brilliant permanent secretary, just as brilliant as Tooru, really— and Hajime threw his head back as Tooru frowned down at it.

Before he could make a decision, it stopped ringing; he’d waited too long.

“It’s not like you to neglect your work,” Hajime said, grinning at him.

Tooru sniffed disdainfully and leaned in once more, not quite kissing him.

The phone rang again.

“Fuck,” he hissed and pulled away once more, “I’m sorry— I’m really sorry,” he grumbled, fumbling for his phone, “I’ve got to— Akaashi,” he spoke into the speaker, pressing it to his ear. He sounded calm and collected, and entirely serious.

Slowly and regretfully, he pulled himself off Hajime’s lap. Hajime sighed, and kissed his jaw— he didn’t know why, he simply wanted to; it was awfully domestic, really— and tapped away into his bedroom.

Tooru watched Hajime walk away with a frown as he scratched at his forehead, elbows perched on his knees and head hung low.

“I know the P.M.’s been insistent about me meeting with Kageyama, but you know I can’t— I don’t trust him,” he told Akaashi, “He’s a lobbyist, he shouldn’t be interfering with the foreign ministry in the first place. I’m not infrastructure or some shit like that,” he grumbled, “Listen; set him up with Yahaba, or something. Get someone from the interior to talk to him. Yahaba owes me something— _I got him that job_ — and I don’t have the time to—”

He halted, then.

Hajime stepped back into the living room holding some grass, skins, and a lighter.

“Akaashi,” spoke Tooru, “Something’s— something’s come up. I’ll call you back.”

He hung up on him.

Tooru stood, and he threw the device on the sofa behind him, stepping closer towards Hajime, who set down his materials on the floor, and sat with his legs crossed in front of him. Tooru knelt down to sit opposite him.

“Kageyama works at Saibu.” Hajime mumbled, stuffing some of the fine, green leaves into a skin.

“I know,” Tooru replied.

“That’s a natural gas company,” Hajime continued lowly, “He’s a lobbyist, there isn’t he?”

“He is,” Tooru agreed. He took some of the weed himself, placing it neatly into a skin and licking around the edges. 

“You’re a corporate puppet,” Hajime said.

“Can a corporate puppet roll a joint like this?” he murmured, holding it up as sheer, concrete evidence.

Hajime raised his eyebrows.

“Where did you— you know what, never mind,” he replied, “I don’t even want to know.”

Tooru chuckled lowly. Hajime leaned forward and lit the end of his blunt. He watched Tooru inhale and smoke— it went deep inside of his lungs, with his eyes closed as though he wanted to forget the world— and then exhale it, watching the smoke fly up into the air and disappear.

Hajime swallowed thickly as Tooru held out the joint, leaning back on the palms of his hands. Hajime took it, graciously, and put it up to his lips, inhaling the smoke and breathing it out, slowly, as though he were sighing.

Tooru licked his lips and a sly smile spread across his lips. He crawled over to him, then, and sat in his lap, thighs on either side of Hajime’s hip. Hajime raised an eyebrow with mild suspicion as Tooru wrapped his arms around his neck and shifted closer to him— his groin flush with Hajime’s lower abdomen— and Hajime brought the joint up to his mouth once more, taking a draw, before exhaling the smoke. Tooru parted his lips and inhaled it, tilting his head and leaning closer to Hajime until they were mere millimetres away.

Tooru toyed with the hairs on the nape of  Hajime’s neck, scratching at the skin there lightly, and Hajime wrapped an arm around his waist, pulling him closer until Tooru’s eyes were a little hooded. There was a haze of smoke between them, and it was as though Hajime saw everything that happened after that in slow motion; Tooru ran his fingers up and down Hajime’s chest before reaching the hem of his t-shirt and inching underneath the fabric, trailing his palm upwards and then pulling it off completely.

Tooru leaned forward, biting and licking at Hajime’s collarbone, sinking his teeth into the juncture of his neck and shoulders, and Hajime groaned lowly, pressing his forehead against Tooru’s shoulder. He ran his hand over Tooru’s back, feeling the bumps of his spine, pressing harder once he reached the small of his back down to his ass. He pulled Tooru towards him with a little too much force. Their groins aligned, and Tooru gasped audibly, rolling his hips towards Hajime. His sweatpants truly were as soft they seemed before. 

Tooru’s fingers dug into Hajime’s shoulders, scratching, and he scratched down Hajime’s upper arms. Hajime’s breath hitched audibly, and he groaned loudly.

Tooru snatched the joint out of Hajime’s fingers, taking a drag and hovering his mouth over Hajime’s. They shared the same oxygen, then; as he exhaled the smoke, Hajime inhaled.

Hajime’s eyes slid closed as Tooru’s hands brushed along his neck and over his bare shoulders. He extinguished the joint— staining Hajime’s dirty linoleum floor— and licked his lips. He cupped Hajime’s jaw, for a moment, and Hajime opened his mouth in an effort to say something, anything, for it all seemed for too intimate. Tooru watched him carefully, and then slid out of his lap, sitting in front of him.

He bowed his head down, his spine curved into a perfect semi-circle, and slid his hands over Hajime’s inner thighs. His fingers were spread widely, and Hajime sighed quietly. Tooru’s dark eyes— his pupils were blown— watched him underneath long eyelashes as Tooru slid his hand over the obvious bulge. It was strange; Tooru was distant, sitting opposite Hajime like that, and yet, his touch shot sparks of electricity down Hajime’s spine. He wasn’t close to him in any sense of the word, but there was something else there, something creeping underneath their skins and eating at them, from the inside out.

Hajime kept his gaze trained on Tooru as he palmed at Hajime’s aching cock with a small smile.

“You can close your eyes, if you want,” murmured Tooru. He pressed his palm against Hajime’s erection once more, and Hajime’s breath hitched. Tooru pushed aside Hajime’s sweatpants, and wrapped his pale hand around his leaking cock without hesitation.

“I don’t want to,” he told him, voice quavering a little. It was too honest, and too vulnerable.

Tooru’s smile grew lopsided— the ghost of a smirk trailing on his lips— and he leaned in, laving his tongue over the head. Hajime groaned softly and bit his lip, hard, in an effort to silence himself. Tooru was submissive, beneath him like this, and it made Hajime’s skin boil; he had to disillusion himself for a moment. There was an authentic reality behind Tooru’s realm of appearance, and it was here and now as he knelt before him. Hajime exhaled shakily and tightened his grip on Tooru as though he wanted to anchor him from floating away up into the atmosphere like a balloon.

Tooru moved with unexpected enthusiasm; he wrapped his lips around the head of Hajime’s cock and wound his tongue easily around it. Hajime’s chest was heaving, and he lifted a hand. It briefly hovered above Tooru’s head as though it were suspended in the air by invisible strings before tangling his fingers into the soft hair. Tooru slid down slowly, following Hajime’s lead. His tongue slid against the underside of his cock, slowly taking him deeper. Hajime’s fingers gripped tighter in his hair, tugging gently, and Tooru moaned.

“Fuck,” breathed Hajime, “Fuck— _Tooru_ —”

His vision blurred, and he tipped his head back, staring at the ceiling as Tooru bobbed his head, deep and slow. His fingers slid further into Tooru’s messy hair, and Tooru’s composure broke. It was then that Hajime noticed the movements of Tooru’s shoulder; he was jerking himself off as he swallowed around Hajime’s cock.

Tooru pulled off with a gasp and flicked his tongue under the head, moaning lowly. Hajime looked down at him, at his flushed cheeks and shining, full lips, and his hips surged up against Tooru, his cock sliding wetly along his cheek. Hajime bit his lips harder, pulling on Tooru’s soft hair. Tooru let him shove his cock back into his mouth, then, and he moaned around him as Hajime panted above him. Tooru complied, moving with him; it was push-and-pull, a motion that went both ways.

Tooru’s warm fingers trailed over Hajime’s sweaty skin, up his abdomen and chest, and Hajime arched up as Tooru swallowed around him, hard. He gasped desperately, as though he were a cursed man praying at the altar for salvation, and twitched, choking out a moan of Tooru’s name as he shook and came, hard, into Tooru’s mouth. Tooru must have swallowed— he did not spit as he removed his mouth— and he buried his head into Hajime’s thighs as he gave a panting cry, back arching and body shaking, and tightened his hand around his cock and simply sobbed, voice hoarse.

There were clouds in Hajime’s head which refused to allow him to focus. Tooru’s breath— still coming fast— fanned over the bare skin of his thighs, and it made Hajime’s chest constrict. He looked down at the mop of Tooru’s hair on his lap, and loosened the fingers that gripped his hair. Tooru opened his eyes and held his breath. He blinked, once or twice, completely still. Hajime swallowed thickly and stared up at the ceiling.

“You should sleep,” he murmured. Tooru snorted softly.

“I don’t think I can,” he said, sighing, “There’re too many demons in my mind.”

 

 

 

**Wakatoshi Resigns**

He Urges a Time of ‘Healing’— Deputy Takes Office Today

**By KUROO TETSURO**

Tokyo, 16th February— Ushijima Wakatoshi, 27th Minister of Defense, announced tonight that he had given up his long and arduous fight to remain in office and would resign, effective at noon tomorrow.

Less than six months after the introduction of the Prime Minister’s new cabinet, Mr. Wakatoshi, in a conciliatory address on national television, said that he was leaving not with a sense of bitterness but with a hope that his departure would start a “process of innovation and healing that is needed in this country.”

The 28 year old appeared calm and resigned to his fate as a victim of the Tokyo Herald scandal. Wakatoshi spoke of regret for an “injuries” done “in the course of the events that led to this decision.” In tone and content, the 15 minute address was a sharp contrast to his frequently combative language of the past, including his questioning of whether foreign minister Oikawa Tooru would be “a competent minister of this country when he is a product of English academia, and did not even serve this country’s military”. 

Wakatoshi himself spoke tonight only of how painful it was for him to give up office, his voice similar to that of a eulogy to his political career.

“I would have preferred to carry through to the finish whatever the personal agony it would have involved, and my members of staff urged me to do so,” he said, “I have never been a quitter. To leave officer before my term is completed is opposed to every instinct in my body. However, the interests of Japan come first.”

As he has many times in the past, Mr. Wakatoshi listed what he considered his notable accomplishments in his political career, and stated that he was leaving “with no bitterness” towards those who had opposed him.  

 

 

 

Hajime folded the newspaper.

His doorbell rang, and he tripped once or twice in his vigour to open it. He unlocked it, and pried it open a little to stare at his visitor. Tooru smiled at him slyly. Hajime opened it wider.

“I’d say good morning, but it’s the middle of the night,” Tooru said, his smile audible. Hajime turned around and led him into his apartment.

“I don’t have much time,” Tooru told him, stepping inside, “I’ve got my ride outside. I’m going to the airport; Moscow.”

“Moscow?”

“Yeah,” scoffed Tooru, shrugging his coat to the floor and throwing his arms around Hajime’s shoulders, “The Americans will be there, too. Biden always gives me side-eye and _God_ , Moscow is the worst! The food isn’t good, and Putin is one scary bastard—”

“Wakatoshi resigned today.”

Tooru grinned at him, a little lopsidedly.

“I know,” Tooru murmured, trailing his fingers along Hajime’s jaw, “Well done.”

“He resigned, Tooru— he resigned because of me—”

“He was going to resign soon any—”

“God!” he shouted, untangling himself from Tooru’s vice, throwing his hands in the air, “You’re so— you’re fucked up,” he pointed a finger at Tooru.

Tooru looked taken aback.

“His life is over,” Hajime breathed, chest heaving, “His life is over because of us, and I— can’t you just— why? Why him?”

Tooru inhaled a shaky breath.

“It’s done now,” he told him, “Relax.”

Hajime’s shoulders were drawn in on the defensive; a product of corruption. Tooru pressed his fingers into the skin of Hajime’s neck, wrapping around it, pushing hard enough to leave a mark.

“I can’t,” Hajime spat, “Please—”

“Are you feeling guilty?”

Tooru blinked at him.

“Yes,” Hajime replied after a while, “I am.”

Tooru sighed.

“Oh, Hajime,” he whispered, “It’s all— this is just politics.”

Hajime frowned.

“I think you should leave,” he told him.

“Why?”

“You’re fucked up,” Hajime said, “You’re so fucked up, and I—”

“You don’t want me to leave,” replied Tooru lowly.

“How the _fuck_ do you know that?” he shouted.

“When it comes to you, Hajime, you should know that there’s no such thing as a secret.”

Hajime bit the inside of his mouth. His skin was crawling.

“Is that a problem?” Tooru asked him.

“Yes,” Hajime groaned lowly, “Tooru—”

Tooru squeezed harder at his neck, and Hajime could feel his head grow lighter, breaths coming in short.

Tooru released him suddenly.

“I’ve got a plane to catch,” he whispered, kissing at the corner of Hajime’s mouth as Hajime coughed and spluttered, bringing his hand up to touch his skin; burning where Tooru’s fingers pressed against his skin.

 

“You look like shit,” Tetsuro told him that next morning.

“Thanks,” Hajime mumbled sarcastically.

“Did you break up with him?”

Hajime frowned. He shrugged.

“You’re a miserable douche without him,” Tetsuro said.

“I’m a miserable douche when I’m with him.”

Tetsuro cackled.

The T.V. was on behind him.

“ _The other members of parliament have been all very quiet about all this,_ ” the journalist spoke, “ _The ministers, too, even the foreign ministry—_ ” a photograph of Tooru came up on the screen, smiling brightly at Hajime, “ _Oikawa has been out of the spotlight in recent days, after his failed Moscow trip. Coming back with nothing to say after such an important conference? That’s very unlikely— he’s shielded away because of Wakatoshi. Oikawa publically supported his campaign, and_ —”

Hajime reached for the remote and turned it off. The screen went dark, and Hajime felt all the strings inside him break.

 

The next day, Hajime woke up to the sounds of Tooru’s voice, on the radio.

“Tell me,” the reporter asked him, “Did you see it coming; Wakatoshi’s resignation? Did you know that he was lying?”

Tooru laughed hollowly.

“I didn’t,” he answered, plain and simple, just like that.

“You two used to be very close—”

“We worked together,” Tooru said mechanically, “I supported his campaign, that’s all.”

The journalist hummed in agreement.

“Why did you think he lied?” she asked Tooru.

Tooru was silent for a brief moment. He inhaled sharply.

“Proximity to power deludes some into thinking they wield it,” he replied, and Hajime could hear his teeth gritting as he spat, “Don’t you think so?”

 

 

**To: Oikawa Tooru**

**_Yours tonight?_ **

****

 

“Did you miss me?” Tooru mumbled as Hajime stepped inside. He dropped his coat to the floor and stepped closer to Tooru.

“I bet you did,” Tooru continued, “Did you see me—”

Hajime grabbed the back to Tooru’s neck— he’d hoped it’d bruise— and pulled him towards him, kissing him on Tooru’s open mouth. Tooru moaned, low in the throat, and laced his fingers through Hajime’s hair. Hajime nipped at his lips, and pushed him into his bedroom. They fell against the bed— Tooru on his back, Hajime above him—  and Hajime yanked at Tooru’s tie, unbuttoned his shirt. Tooru pulled at Hajime’s t-shirt, and they broke away, briefly, to rip off their clothing.

Tooru pulled Hajime closer towards him, rolling his hips upwards and kissing at his ear. Hajime’s balance almost faltered, and he swore under his breath as Tooru pressed his mouth against his once more. He nipped at his lips, Hajime parted them— sighing into his mouth— and Tooru slid their tongues together easily, messily, as though they’d done this a thousand times.

Hajime trailed his hands over the smooth expanse of Tooru’s skin, and kissed him deeper as he squeezed Tooru’s ass. Tooru spread his legs, and moaned softly into his mouth.

“Shit,” breathed Hajime as fumbled to pull open his nightstand drawer. He pulled away, briefly, to open it, and Tooru laughed softly at the sight. Hajime ripped through it, until he found lube and some condoms. He threw them both onto the mattress, and Tooru smiled lopsidedly.

“You’re got high hopes,” Tooru told him softly, staring at the wealth of condoms— five packages— Hajime had laid beside him.

“Shut the fuck up,” Hajime mumbled as he grabbed Tooru’s face and kissed him once more. Tooru arched his hips, and he gasped as their groins pressed against one another.

“ _Oh_ — make me,” Tooru breathed.

Hajime gripped his hips, and ground his cock into Tooru’s ass. He popped open the cap of the lube, and leaned away from Tooru to spread it over two of his fingers and press into him; he took it far too well. Tooru exhaled shakily, and Hajime hooked his fingers upwards. A flush bloomed over Tooru’s cheeks, and Hajime etched his wanton moans and face and aching body into his mind. It was almost too much, Tooru’s gasping and keening, and Hajime tightened his grip on Tooru’s hip.

He thrust his fingers harder, curling his fingers. Tooru arched his back, threw back his head, and groaned, loudly.

Hajime pulled his fingers out— abruptly, Tooru whined softly— and reached for a condom. He rolled it over him, slicked it with lube, and rubbed his cock against Tooru as Tooru leaned in to kiss him once more.

Hajime pressed up into him, then, and his eyes squeezed shut. Tooru was perfect, really; tight and hot and slick. Tooru gasped, chest heaving, and his fingers dug into Hajime’s upper arms as he pulled out, almost completely, only to thrust back in, fully to the hilt.

“ _Fuck_ ,” moaned Tooru, “Hajime— you feel so _good_ ,”

“Yeah?”  he asked quietly, voice was rough and raspy.

Tooru gasped as Hajime rolled his hips upwards. His self-control was slipping far faster than he’d anticipated; he gripped Tooru’s hips and fucked him, harder, moving faster until Tooru tensed and gasped and tightened around him.

“I want to fuck you so hard,” Hajime hissed into his ear, pulling at Tooru’s hair until it was tilted back, “I want to hear you scream,” he snapped his hips up, hard, “I could do this for _days_ — I’ll fuck you just like that, till you come so hard you pass out.”

Tooru whimpered. He sucked in sharp breaths as Hajime slowed, rolling his hips, until Tooru rode his hips back towards Hajime. Hajime’s eyes slid shut, and he moaned lowly.

“I’ll make the neighbours complain,” Hajime managed, “You get so loud, Tooru.”

Tooru’s nails dug into the skin of Hajime’s arms, and he tightened around him. Hajime felt as though he were drowning; as though he had walked into a swimming pool and not noticed how deep it had become until he was gasping for air.

Precum dribbled from Tooru’s cock onto his stomach.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Tooru gasped, arching his back, “I’m— I’m gonna come, _God_ — don’t fucking stop— _Hajime_ —”

“Come for me,” Hajime breathed into Tooru’s ear, “I want to see you— I want to hear you come,”

Tooru’s lips parted on a moan of Hajime’s name, and his voice grew higher, louder, breathier, until he cried out and shook beneath Hajime. His back arched, eyes squeezed shut, and he clamped down on Hajime’s cock before coming, hard, over his and Hajime’s chests. He choked out Hajime’s name, and that was all it took, really; he pressed himself against Tooru, thrusts short and fast, until he groaned Tooru’s name against his neck.

Tooru’s arm moved to wrap about Hajime’s neck as he came, shaking. Tooru’s body jolted with every movement of Hajime— he was still inside of him— and he giggled as Hajime kissed up his neck and over his jaw. It was almost too gentle, and too chaste, as though he thought Tooru were asleep.

Tooru grinned and scratched at Hajime’s scalp.

“Shit,” Hajime hushed. He slid his arms out from underneath Tooru’s knees and waist. Insatiable, Hajime kissed him once more and pulled out of Tooru slowly.

They laid side-by-side, and Hajime mapped out the smooth expanse of Tooru’s face beneath his fingers. Tooru’s eyes were closed, and he looked so calm; he was no longer a hurricane. For a brief moment, all was forgotten. Tooru was no longer the impossible golden-boy, the genius, the powerful, dangerously young minister. He was simply Tooru; nothing more, nothing less.

“I hope you don’t have plans until Monday,” he told Hajime hoarsely, later, “I might want to take you up on those offers.”

Hajime chuckled lowly.

“Sure,” he replied, grinning, “As long as you’ve got another story.”

“Oh, Hajime,” Tooru sighed, rolling to sit himself in Hajime’s lap, running his hands down Hajime’s chest, “I’ve always got a story for you.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> !! 
> 
> whoooohooo


End file.
